Return
by ViceBernstien
Summary: Ellen returns back to Doolin to see Keats after the events of the game.


When I left Keats to go back to Aberystwyth, I still had this weird feeling that he was just a figment of my imagination. In university seminars I would stare out of the window and the sea below would stir up such feelings of nostalgia for Doolin, the waves glinting from a glassy green to a crystal blue in the sunlight; hitting the exact shade of Keats' iris. And completely in my own world, outside of the classroom despite being sat inside of it, I would almost expect him to climb up the university building and pull me out of the window, down to the sea below and whisk me off to the Netherworld. I had this knight-like image of him in my head that could never match up to any kind of reality.

I realised it had all gotten a bit too much when I started having little imaginary conversations with a conjured up Keats in my head, and one comment of mine had left him looking so dejected, his eyes flickering and his hands fiddling, quite like Herve, that I started laughing out loud in the middle of a seminar on mourning poetry. Thankfully, that day was the end of the semester so I didn't have much time to feel embarrassed.

I had decided to go back to Doolin to spend my summer; after all, it wasn't as though I had anywhere else I could call home. I had been trying not to think too much about the events which had happened last Samhain, I needed to concentrate on my work and if I had thought too much about it I would never have gotten a scrap of work done. Still, I had plenty of time to mull it all over on the ferry.

Going back to university after it all had been so strange. After learning about my childhood it felt quite wrong to go back and be, at least to everyone in Aberystwyth, the same Ellen which had been going there for three whole years. I felt as though I should be known as Cecelia now. I even recall giving in a piece of work with that name by mistake. Still, despite it having been a difficult year everything was going smoothly. My degree was finished and all I had to do was sit and wait for my results. This gave me lots of time to explore any missing links I still had yet to figure out.

Still, I couldn't come to terms with finally realising what that huge hole in my heart had been all these years. It was even stranger coming to terms with the fact that the man I had met on the cliffs, Keats, was that gap. Herve Keats, my childhood friend who had been forgotten all these years, the boy who had saved my life in exchange for his own. Still, I think Keats was just as surprised and confused with all this new and elapsed information as I was. And at least now I finally understood that weird dart that had lodged in my heart when I met him that day on the cliff and that overwhelming sense of nostalgia the smell of him gave me.

I arrived in Doolin late, just past midnight. Everything was black besides the faint outline of foggy clouds dancing like necrophilic ghosts circling the sea. I took a look into the jet black waters on the cliff of Sidhe and thought about how those stagnant waters once lit up like an exotic pool. The cliffs were a deceiving place, underneath what seemed so dark and depressing there was a morbid, yet cheerful party going on. With those thoughts I made my way to the pub, which seemed the only gleam of light in the vicinity.

As though he emerged from nothing, Keats was waiting for me outside the pub, pulling at his tie and scowling slightly as though to denote that I was indeed rather late. He looked so ridiculous that I ran straight to him and pulled him to me, nearly pulling him over in my haste. 'I missed you so much.'

'So that's why you're so determined to kill me now you've finally seen me,' he laughed. 'Do you choke everyone you love?'

'I-it's just good to see you,' I said, hoping he couldn't feel my cheeks burning against his. 'I didn't expect to see you here; I thought you'd be in the Netherw- well, your office.'

'No, no, since I knew you'd be coming I thought I'd come and welcome you personally,' I could feel him smirking in the darkness; he was quite his usual self, although his grip was a kind one. 'Where are you staying? In that dusty hut of yours again?'

'Well, no I assumed I'd be staying with you,' I said, feeling like an idiot. 'Would that not be possible? I suppose I could see if I could stay at the pub.'

'No, it's no problem. You can stay in my office with me, there's a fold out bed. I'll sleep on the sofa or something. Come on, let's get back before we freeze.'

When we got back to his office everything felt surreal again, like a dream. I knew I was not asleep but still I could not believe that I was back in that same office I had stood in half a year ago when I had said goodbye to Keats, for what I feared may have been for ever.

'You seem dazed,' he said, not looking up from filling the kettle. 'What, worried I'm a figment of your imagination or something?' He placed the kettle on the stove and looked up at me.

'H-how did you know?'

'A reporter knows,' he smiled, 'that and it's written all over your face.'

I looked up at him to scowl. This was the first time I had seen him clearly since we said goodbye and I had quite forgotten just how good looking he was, his hair long and wavy, his eyes light and misty, slightly hidden by his round glasses. He was like a faery; I could feel myself becoming quite spellbound.

'Are you alright?' he asked, suddenly behind me, his hands on my shoulders. I disintegrated.

I started crying, I don't know quite why but I did. Probably because everything was all so overwhelming and I never let any of it out before. I was too concerned on solving everything last Samhain and I was then too concerned on finishing my university work. I never had time to fall apart. But now I'm falling apart in front of Keats, in his arms, and I can't control myself. I think he's talking to me but I'm not even listening. I'm just swimming in the scent of him, entrapped in the sweet images and sounds that his smell gives me. There are so many things that I want to ask him, so many things I want to tell him. When I come round I realise that he is real, this is reality, and I can't stop smiling.

'What is it, Ellen?' he looks concerned.

'I just realised that I'm the most happy that I've ever been because I've met you.'

'Is that so?' he asked and I could swear that he almost looked just a little bit nervous. 'What about university, weren't you happy there?'

'Well, I enjoyed studying English. But, Keats that's not happiness. All through my life I always felt like something was missing, but then I met you and that feeling disappeared.'

'So university didn't make you happy?'

'Were you happy when writing your magazine was your life?' I asked.

'I thought I was happy, yes,' he replied, 'but then I met you and then I lost you again and I realised that writing alone wasn't enough to make me happy.'

'But you're happy now, Keats?'

'Now, everything is fabulous; I never imagined I could be this happy.' He held me tight to him, so tight I could feel his chest against my own. 'I just wish you never had to leave again.'

I ran my hand down his back and inhaled his scent, so nostalgic and wonderful it was almost intoxicating. 'Maybe, I don't have to.'

He rested his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. 'You mean, you'll stay here?'

'Maybe. I want to be a painter, so I'm going to be here a good while. After all, Doolin was always my inspiration.'

'Right from when we were little, right?' his eyes were gleaming and he looked so beautiful I can quite understand why I had doubted his existence. I stood there in enchantment for a moment and before I knew it I was pulled down onto the sofa by his wondrous hands.

In a split second he was on top of me, his warm chest against mine. He kissed me softly, as if to try to avoid his stubble scratching my lips. I pulled him closer and he kissed me deeper this time, his facial hair softer than it would appear, his lips as gentle as his arms. He feels as wonderful as he looks, and before I knew what I'd done his shirt and waistcoat were unbuttoned, his chest exposed, my legs wrapped around him and he was beginning the undo my blouse. I didn't have a second to feel shy; I was too enwrapped in Keats and what he was doing to me.

Speaking of Keats, before I knew he had done it, he was half way down my legs and was undoing the buckles of my kilt. I froze and all my shy and nervous tendencies returned in a flush of insecurity. I just knew I was about to disgust him involuntarily.

'K-Keats…' I muttered. 'What're you doing?'

He said nothing and kissed me on the lips. He then kissed me somewhere not too unlike my lips and I squirmed. Overwhelmed with an outburst of both shyness and delight all at once. He was good at it, very good. His tongue circled and twisted until I felt as though I would spontaneously combust. He then, suddenly but gently slipped his fingers inside of me. It was intense and I wasn't expecting it, but he kissed my hand and gripped it tightly. I had one hand holding onto his for dear life, the other coiled in his lovely, wavy brown hair. On the other hand, one of his was supporting mine, the other lovingly thrusting inside of me, where I had never let any other man and knew now, that I never would. I knew now that I could tell him.

'Herv- K-Keats, I love you…'

'It's ok, you can call me Herve, you know.' His head disappeared for a long while and I didn't dare look at him in case our eyes met. After a good few minutes he resurfaced and gave me a wonderfully deep kiss. 'I love you too, so much, Ellen.'

I pulled him up so that his face was on my level, his hand still inside of me, and held him as close as I could. I allowed him to release his hand from me, embarrassed by my wetness; I had long ago had an orgasm. I couldn't bear to look him in the eye, still he cupped my chin with his hand and dragged it upwards to look at him. 'You're embarrassed, aren't you?' he whispered, smirking a little, although it was certainly the kindest smirk he'd ever shone on me.

'A-a little.' His pupils were wide and shining, he looked wondrous but still I couldn't look him in the eye. I simply turned away from him on the sofa and hoped that soon I'd recover some confidence, at least enough to face the man I loved.


End file.
